take me to birdland (and hurry)
by finaljoy
Summary: It went like this: Steve was Bucky's best friend. Steve would help Bucky out with anything. Steve would always be the one person Bucky could rely on. Bucky just happened to be lying to Steve. But Bucky was doing fine, good, even. He was doing good he was doing good he was doing good he was doing cocaine. (drug addict au)
1. look for the silver lining

_AN __I didn't mean to do this. I swear, I absolutely did not. But then I read RedBessRackham's fabulous story_ (titled: **and you can tell everybody this is your song**) _just__ after I watched Political Animals (and I swear to all that is right if TJ Hammond is not the quintessential SebStan character, I know nothing at all), and then there was this self-indulgent conversation about 'Oh NO, I COULDN'T write this, look at everything ELSE I need to work on...', and things just got out of hand. Almost ten thousand words out of hand, to be exact._

**Warnings**: hard drug use/recovery, language, angst and general emotional pain, rudimentary knowledge about cocaine so please forgive any inaccuracies

* * *

Bucky draped himself over the door of his fridge, staring in and seeing nothing to eat. There were apples, milk, leftovers from several meals, salad, eggs, bacon, cheese, protein drinks, yogurt, and yet nothing made him feel hungry. He knew he should eat. He knew it, he knew that his body needed something other than bad decisions to operate, but nothing was tempting him. If he was being honest, the thought of food just made him feel vaguely sick, and the burden of having to figure it all out was just irritating him further, so he closed the fridge door. The kitchen felt exceptionally dark, now that the only real source of light had been cut off.

"Hey, Buck."

Bucky whirled around, stomach screaming into his mouth. Steve leaned against the doorway of his kitchen. He looked tired.

"H-hey," he stammered, staring at him. "What're you doing here?"

"Just here for the backdrops," he said, giving a vague gesture behind him. Steve had been hired to paint most of the backdrops for a local play. They had mostly been stored in Bucky's apartment, as Steve lived in a broom cupboard that barely had room for furniture. "Why, you don't want me here?"

"'Course that's not it," Bucky said, cracking a smile along with Steve. "It just seemed a little late, is all. Weren't you gonna—weren't you gonna pick those up earlier?" Bucky scrambled to think, scrambled to remember if that had really happened, but he kept thinking about how _inconvenient _it was to have Steve there. Couldn't he have just waited, couldn't he have come by when Bucky _wasn't_ at home? He didn't really want to have to deal with Steve right now, to dodge whatever questions were sure to be launched his way.

"Yeah, but I got a little caught up. I really did mean to drop by earlier, but it seems like you just came back, so…" Steve broke off, eyes wandering over to the green numbers of the oven. They said it was almost ten. Bucky frowned. He had left before noon.

"Buck, you…can I ask you something?"

"Hm? Yeah, uhm, sure," he said, heart catapulting itself against his ribs now, because here it came, here it came, he was going to ask, the whole thing was up, Bucky had screwed up and he screwed up big he didn't want Steve to know he had worked _so hard _to hide it—

"I…well, I guess I'm more telling you. I—wait, are your hands shaking?"

Bucky glanced down at himself. Sure enough, his hands had a vague tremor. He scowled at them, and turned them into fists so it would be less noticeable.

"Yeah, uhm, missed lunch. And dinner. Kind of."

"Oh…kay. Uhm, well, I…I was thinking about joining the army."

Bucky blinked at him. Steve looked so nervous, practically wringing his hands as he waited for Bucky's verdict.

Bucky leaned back against the fridge, and burst into laughter.

_Steve _in the army? The idea was just so _funny _to him, funny bordering on ludicrous. Steve barely knew how to handle his body, after puberty had caught up and slapped the body of a man on him. He was enrolled in_ art_ _college_, he stuck paintbrushes behind his ear and had drawing pencils sticking out of his back pocket, his hands wouldn't know what to do with a _gun_. He was going to be torn apart! Forget going overseas, his ass would be ripped to shreds before he even made it through the first week of boot camp!

His laughter stopped when he saw Steve's face crumple.

Bucky straightened, humor immediately replaced with anger.

"Steve, you can't be _serious._ You, the _army_? You, what, you wanna go over to Afghanistan or something, and let a few terrorists blow you up?"

"We're not occupying the Middle East, Buck." Steve's voice was so, so cold.

"_So_? The same's gonna happen! You'll probably be tossed into some troubled, developing country, where lunatics Molotov cocktail the streets every few weeks, and then all of your wide-eyed idealism is gonna get shot to shit when you see the world isn't just art college and stand-up American ideals!"

Bucky was breathing hard now, the world tripping over him as he tried to get the words out. The synthetic good mood he had been feeling earlier had completely gone, making him feel hard and cold and horrible. How could Steve toss out something like that, and then look like a kicked puppy when Bucky didn't instantly adore it? It was _his_ fault, he should be the one defending himself, here! Bucky was just looking out for him, telling him the shit that no one else seemed to be able to.

"Gee, Bucky, I didn't realize you disliked the military that much." His voice wasn't accusatory, just a little sad and horribly accepting of what Bucky spat at him. But there was that bitter edge of _disappointment, _like Bucky had suddenly changed before his eyes, turning into something he didn't recognize.

It was suddenly hard to breathe, he didn't want to be there, he didn't want to have to look at Steve, didn't want to have to feel like such an ass because he was fucking high as a kite and unable to act like a normal human being.

Bucky shoved himself away from the kitchen, and practically sprinted for the front door

He vomited before he could even make the block.

* * *

The next day was agony. He desperately didn't want to face Steve. He also had an insane headache, his damn nose wouldn't stop running, he thought he was going to punch through a wall, he was so anxious about his conversation with Steve, and he couldn't think he couldn't think he couldn't think but he couldn't stand not doing anything. Steve had confided that he _wanted to join the army, _and Bucky had laughed in his face, then shouted him down. He had been too high on cocaine to realize that he wasn't be human until it was too late.

Steve's face was closed off when Bucky knocked on his door. Bucky closed his eyes and sighed.

"Steve, I am so, _so_ sorry. Last night, I—I don't know why, it just—that was kind of a shock."

"I know."

"I want you to know that I don't really think all that stuff. I mean, I'm _worried_ about you, but…I didn't mean that."

"I know."

"Steve, I—I just don't want to you get hurt. I mean, you understand where I'm coming from, right? You get why I'm not over the moon about this, right?" He stared into his face, praying that he wasn't coming off as the obnoxious ass that he was feeling like. Steve just had that flat expression, almost cold in its lack of emotion.

Bucky dropped his eyes, not sure what else there was to say. His nose started running again, and he gave a soft growl of annoyance before wiping it.

"I get it."

He glanced up at Steve's voice. Was Steve responding from pity at how _wretched_ Bucky looked, or because he wanted to get out of his doorway, or because he actually understood?

"I…I'm sorry. If you wanna join the army, go join the army! I just…do it for the right reasons, okay? And _please,_ be _safe._"

Steve nodded, and glanceddown at their shoes. He touched Bucky on the shoulder, but his eyes said that he still was not okay. Bucky was glad to see that he wasn't going to just get away with his appalling behavior, but his stomach was also dragging itself into knots because _things were still not right._

Steve shifted, and then Bucky realized that he had a bag over his shoulder, and seemed to be on his way out.

"I gotta go meet Peggy," he mumbled. Bucky instantly stepped back, nodding.

"Y-yeah, go ahead. Don't let me keep you."

Steve gave a half-hearted nod, but just kept looking at him.

"You're such a jerk," he sighed after a moment, slapping Bucky on the shoulder as he passed. Bucky perked a little, and forced something like a smile on his face.

"Punk," he responded, the words tugged from his lips. He didn't really have a right to fall back into their old routine, and they both knew it, but Steve was allowing him anyways. Bucky could be thankful for that.

* * *

"Hello?"

Bucky turned at the sound of the clipped English accent, eyes turning to the hallway. Peggy. It sounded like she had just come in the front door.

"I'm here," he said. "Be out in a sec."

He turned back to the coke lines in front of him.

He leaned over to use them as fast as possible, hands practically shaking from anxiety and the buzz already going through his blood.

"I borrowed Steve's key," she continued, voice drifting closer. "I hope that's alright. He said it was okay, but it's a little different when you're the one intruding…"

Peggy stood just outside of the room for a moment, then let out a scream when she realized what he was doing. Bucky jerked, but didn't turn around. Peggy sprang across the room, yanking him away from the table. He let out a shout of surprise, but then there were clouds of white in the air, and rage ripped through his stomach.

He whipped around to face her, and shoved Peggy back. She grunted when she hit the bookshelf, then she shoved him back and kicked him in the thigh.

"What are you _doing_?" she yelled at him, fists clenched. He looked up at her from the ground, suddenly hating himself. "What do you—you're doing _cocaine_? Does _Steve _know? How could you even—"

She turned around, hand on her forehead. Peggy started pacing, shooting him the occasional look.

"James, _why_?"

He looked at her, wishing she would hand him an answer to her own question. She glared at him, shockingly betrayed to have walked in on him snorting coke. They had known each other for almost a year now, but she had always been _Steve's girlfriend, _and not much else. The fact that she would be bothered this way…

Bucky wasn't sure if he felt more shame at disappointing her, or gratitude that she cared.

"I…I don't know."

"How could you not _know_? This is—isn't like you just _slip_ _into it_! How could—does Steve know?" she repeated, clearly trying to pull herself back. She had stopped pacing, standing still and bold and terrifying in her potential to ruin everything.

"_No,_ no, Steve can't know, don't tell him!" His heart was suddenly screaming in his chest, threatening to break loose, and just the thought made him want to roll over and vomit on the floor. Peggy looked so horridly perfect there, standing above him with her lipstick just so, and not a hair out of place. Her expression said that she wasn't about to lie for him.

"You _can't _tell him," Bucky said, more plea than command. "It would wreck him, you can't do it, you can't, please, Peggy, _please._ He's got bigger things going on, he wants to join the freakin' _army. _He can't worry about me. He doesn't need to know."

Peggy shot him a flat, disgusted look, and shook her head.

"I can't lie. Not when you need his help."

"Peggy. You _can't_ tell him. You know what would happen, he would give _everything _up for me, and I can't—I don't want to be the one to ruin his life."

She still had her eyes narrowed, but she kneeled down beside him.

"James…you can't just _hide_ this, and I'm not—" She cut herself off, looking down at his hands. She looked back up, something a little less hostile in her eyes.

"How can I help?"

* * *

Things went on. Steve finished his last semester of art school, Bucky attended the ceremony. Bucky mentioned wanting to do more with dancing, Steve suggested he take lessons. Peggy was promoted at her prestigious company, they all celebrated by going out. Bucky did cocaine, Peggy despised it but helped however she could, and Steve was none the wiser. It was actually kind of working.

But not really.

"Whoa, Buck, you alright?" Steve asked, when Bucky nearly collapsed after standing up too fast. He had a slight laugh in his voice, but his eyes were all concern. They were at Steve's place, belatedly celebrating Steve's birthday by watching Yankee Doodle Dandy and eating popcorn and old fashioned root beer (or at least, Steve had made popcorn, and Bucky bought the root beer, but Steve was the only one really eating anything).

"Oh, yeah, uhm, just stood up too fast," he mumbled, praying that would be a valid excuse for practically collapsing at seemingly nothing. He blinked hard, trying to push away the huge spots in his vision. Steve nodded and heaved him upright from where he was braced against the coffee table, and moved back to his chair. Bucky nodded in thanks, and proceeded to Steve's neat little kitchen. He braced himself against the counter, out of Steve's line of sight. He hadn't eaten in…Tuesday, Wednesday, was today Friday?...a while, and he needed something in him, he needed…something other than cocaine (but he also really needed the cocaine), or else he really would pass out.

After a moment, he filled up a glass of water, because that was probably the only thing his stomach would handle. While his hands moved, he hitched a mild smile onto his face.

"So, uhm, how goes the training?" he asked the room, eyes on his cup. Steve glanced around, surprised.

He had been training to pass the military's physical exam for the last few weeks, and the results were already showing. Steve had been reasonably fit before, and certainly not the waif he had been through most of high school, but now Bucky could see the veins sticking out of his arms, the way the muscles hinted through his shirt (Steve still had not grasped the concept of buying shirts that his pectorals weren't exploding out of). It made Bucky proud, just like seeing Steve complete a picture or bring home a project from school. He was _doing _something, making something. He had made a decision, and carried it out. And yet, there was still that ring of distaste left in Bucky. He wanted Steve to succeed, but he didn't want Steve to go. He didn't want him in danger, didn't want him far away, didn't want Steve looking and feeling like the sun, when he, Bucky, felt and looked like a disappointed sigh.

"It's going good," he said, pausing the movie. His whole body screamed caution, but then, he had good reason. Every time Steve had brought the topic up, Bucky had usually wandered to the subject of the inevitability of death. He never meant to, it just…happened, a logical progression in Bucky's mind, a reality Steve had to reconcile himself with before he launched down this path. Seeing Steve's wary face, though, made Bucky curse himself out for that. Rather than come off as a person trying to help prepare Steve, he had just ended up being a defeatist ass.

"The strength things I can handle, crunches and situps, you know, but the running is killing me. I'm not really certain…it's kind of a coordination thing," he admitted, giving an embarrassed shrug.

Bucky gave him a reassuring smile, and said, "Just give it time. You can sign up whenever you want. Don't push yourself too far."

"Well, it's going better, anyways. I found a running partner, and that's good. Did I tell you about him? Sam Wilson, and he's actually part of the VA."

"No shit?" Bucky asked, breaking into a grin. Steve's delight was infectious, even though Bucky was caught by the mention of Steve's new running partner. He _hadn't_ told Bucky about him, probably because Bucky was so damn intolerant of the idea joining the army.

When had that happened? And when did Steve start keeping secrets?

"Yeah, I couldn't believe it either! I was warming up at the gym one day, and just struck up a conversation with him. Just like that."

"That's great," Bucky said, and he prayed Steve believed it.

Steve's expression suddenly faltered.

"Uhm, Bucky…"

Then he felt it, something sliding down his lips. Bucky jerked his head back instinctively, hand going to cover his nose. He glanced down at himself, gritting out curses at his bloody nose.

A few drops of blood handed in his cup of water. He poured it out. He wasn't really hungry, anyway.

* * *

"_James, _look at me._"_ Bucky glanced up, shaking from nerves. His eyes lingered on Peggy for just a moment, then they darted away, checking the windows, checking the doors.

"James," Peggy repeated, taking his face in her hands. He held her gaze then, suddenly connecting with the stern sorrow in her face. He broke into breathy tears, gasping a little as some dropped onto his cheeks.

"When was the last time you slept?"

"I don't—I dunno," he admitted. His voice was a little slower, less jittery and nervous.

"James, you need to sleep," she told him, voice measured and slow. "Can you do that for me?"

"I don't—I don't—I can't, no, no, no, I can't it's not a good idea."

"Why?"

"I won't be on guard, they'll get out, they'll get me." He looked away, and started fidgeting with his hands.

"What are 'they'?"

Bucky vehemently shook his head, dropping his eyes to his lap. Just naming them was dangerous. He had been fine, feeling like he was floating far above the clouds just a little while ago, then he felt himself dropping and fast, so he'd gone to Peggy. She knew, she was safe, she could help.

Peggy pursed her lips, which were the shocking shade of skin, looking weirdly false compared to the stark red of her usual lipstick. She didn't have any make up on, her hair was slung back in a ponytail, and her shirt and jeans were old and comfortable. She looked great, considering it was eleven twelve one in the morning. Probably better than him.

"I'm going to get you a tissue, okay?" she asked, leaning back. "I'll be right back."

Bucky nodded, watching her stand up and turn towards the door. He clasped his hands and rocked in the chair, waiting waiting waiting for her to come back. He could feel her own unhappiness, spinning around the room and making it hard for him to breathe. She hated this, she hated it she hated it she hated lying and she probably hated him, because _he_ was doing this, he was making both of them suffer because he didn't listen to her he didn't get real help he didn't tell the truth, he just got more and more and more cocaine.

She returned in a few seconds, a few tissues in hand.

"Here you go," she murmured, handing them to him. He smeared them over his eyes, then sat there, a little lost.

"Nose, too."

Bucky blinked and dabbed at his nose, realizing that is was running and stung.

Peggy glanced at the other chairs in her living room, but seemed to decide against sitting. She compromised by leaning on the wall.

"What happened?"

He shrugged, not sure what to say. He'd been fine, _great,_ actually, laughing himself stupid with a bunch of people. After all, he'd just done a line of coke off someone's stomach, and had maybe made out with them before—after?—no before—no that was somebody else—maybe?—he'd done a line of coke, but things went bad. He dropped, he was spiraling, the intense joy from before draining from his fingertips. He still felt his skin thrumming, but he felt _guilt,_ the thought of Steve's face in his head. And then shame was on his lips, and then Bucky _ran._

"Secret," he blurted, and Peggy looked at him. "The secrets, they—they're all in my stomach, and in my lungs, and I can't get them out don't want them out and they're at the doors and don't want them in can't let them in and Steve doesn't know but he needs to but shouldn't and I need _help,_ Peggy."

Peggy watched him for a long moment, then pushed herself off the wall. He flinched when she strode over to him _she hit me last time, _but then he felt her drape her arms around him. Peggy squeezed him tight, and whispered, "Oh, honey, we'll work this out."

He didn't know how to hug back, so he just held onto her arm, terrified she might let go.

* * *

_AN this started out as a simple coffee shop AU what happened._


	2. willow weep for me

_AN hello darkness my old friend_

_Also, this chapter contains a good chunk of comic book-y hand wave-y yeah that's a thing science, so...yes._

* * *

Steve looked so angry he might cry. Bucky felt so scared he might be sick.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"H-how did you know?"

Steve stared at him, shaking his head in distinct disappointment.

"Bucky, how did I _not_ know? It's _obvious,_ I should have seen it so much sooner!" he snapped, running a hand through his hair. "You look awful, you've been acting weird for ages, you can't seem to _sit still—_" Bucky sat on his fidgeting hands, but couldn't still his twitching leg "—and I never put any of it together."

"I didn't-I didn't want you to find out."

The words sounded pathetic and small.

"Didn't want me to—you're my _best friend!_" Steve shouted, throwing his hands into the air. "Why couldn't I have helped you? Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

"Did Peggy tell you?" he asked, the words a defeated whisper. He had _trusted _her, and she had gone and told.

"Peggy? _Peggy_ knew about this?!"

"She—she found me, and I was—"

"No, she didn't tell me!" Steve yelled, the words tumbling out over Bucky, like Steve didn't want to know what Bucky had been doing. The idea was almost funny. Steve wanted to know what Bucky was doing, and yet he didn't.

Steve worked his jaw, clearly reining himself in. He closed his eyes, speaking through grit teeth.

"It was Sam."

Bucky reeled with shock—_Sam—_Steve's running partner? Had he been _so obvious_ to—

"He told me about the difficulties of returning from armed duty. Everyone suffers, but some…they turn to drugs. He described one of the worst, cocaine, to me. How people look, how they act_._ They lose weight, the always look sick because they're not sleeping, they're nervous and aggressive sometimes, then are walking on the sun the next minute. They look like _you,_ Bucky. Why did it have to come down to this? Why did I have to find out from someone who doesn't even _know_ you?"

He stammered for an answer, empty now that Steve knew. What was there left to do when not doing blow and not keeping it from Steve?

"Bucky, I want to _help_ you. You _need help._"

"I'm—"

"You look like a mess. Who knows when you last shaved, you hair's all over the place, and a few months ago you _never _would have just thrown on clothes like that…Buck, I can see your ribs," he said, the last words a heartbroken murmur. Bucky dropped his eyes, lips pressed tight against the sob that had been building in his chest for weeks.

"I don't know what to do," he whispered, and then broke down entirely. Steve grabbed him into a furious hug. It was so different from Peggy's, not gentle and forlorn, not tentatively admitting there was nothing to do. This was aggressive and heartbroken and screamed that Steve was sorry.

* * *

Bucky had a problem. He could recognize that. He looked like a mess most days, he couldn't remember the last time he had slept, any spare money he had went to either cocaine or granola bars, and he had barely stopped actively hiding the most consuming part of his life from his best friend. He _knew_ that he had a problem.

That didn't mean he wanted anyone to get their hands in it and start changing things, though.

If he had realized Steve knowing about his problem involved Steve doing a cavity search of Bucky's apartment, he would have worked a little harder to keep the truth from him.

"Bucky, what's this?" Steve asked, tossing a bag of something at Bucky. He caught it, jolted out of his sulk. Steve typically didn't say anything when he found a bag of coke or something. All of the drugs Steve found were pulled out, shown to Bucky, and then promptly dropped into the garbage bag in Steve's fist. He might have thought he was doing Bucky a favor by not asking questions and dragging it out, but the silence was by far the worst part of the whole ordeal.

Bucky examined the bag in his hand, frowning as he worked out the contents.

"Contact cards," he said after a moment, completely surprised.

"From what?" Steve had turned back to expunging the couch, but his tone was light.

"Dance studios," he murmured, opening the bag and pulling out a card. He vaguely remembered going around and collecting the info of studios that had caught his interest. He didn't know how long ago that had been.

"Yeah?"

Steve pulled his hand back from the couch, watching Bucky. He was squatting in front of the couch, arms resting on his knees.

"What were you planning on doing with them?"

"I dunno," Bucky said, putting the card back in the bag, suddenly embarrassed. He had mentioned taking proper dancing lessons once or twice, but the idea of saying '_Yeah, I was thinking about taking a class to learn Sluefoot or something'_ felt completely ridiculous.

But Steve was grinning at him, raising an eyebrow like they were chatting over subs and sodas, not the disgusting innards of a couch and a trash bag full of narcotics. Bucky sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"I…I guess I wanted…I wanted to look at taking real classes," he admitted, trying to be casual as he pointedly didn't look at Steve. "Like, I can dance, yeah, but…I like swing dancing, and I was curious."

"Why didn't you follow up? The bag looks old."

"Things got in the way," he said. Steve dropped his eyes, giving a small nod. They were quiet for a moment, and then Bucky tossed the bag back to Steve. He caught the bag, examining it for a moment. Bucky pretended not to notice when he put it in his pocket.

By the time they were done, Bucky felt all sorts of anxious, and his apartment looked deflated, without all of its secrets holding it up, but Steve looked satisfied. He probably would have been less so, if he knew just how badly Bucky wanted to go rip the bag out of his hand and use all of it at once.

* * *

"How's the, uhm, training coming?" Bucky asked, sitting on his hands so he wouldn't try shoving Steve out the window so he could run out of the apartment and go find a dealer and snort all the coke he could possibly get his hands on.

Steve shrugged, flipping through one of his art books.

"Eh, good, I guess."

"You guess?" Bucky looked at him, questioning the apathy in his voice.

"It's not…really going anymore."

"What? Why?"

Steve put down the book, giving Bucky a grimace.

"Buck…I can't just go off and join the military when you…when you're…"

"So you're putting your life on hold, just because I let mine go to shit?" he asked, hoping that his aggressive sarcasm hid the absolute horror he felt.

"I'm not putting my life on hold," Steve sniffed, opening his book back up. "I'm working as a free lance artist now, and I'm helping Sam out at the VA."

"Two things. Very impressive."

They were silent for a while, which left Bucky to think about how much his body hurt and how much he wanted to sleep but he _couldn't sleep_ and how much he really really really wanted to do blow. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, resting his head against the chair cushion.

For the last four days, Bucky had been staying at Steve's house, so that he could properly detox without breaking anything or going out and buying more cocaine. According to Steve, it was a lucky thing that cocaine withdrawal had minor physical symptoms when compared to alcohol or heroin withdrawal, but Bucky personally thought Steve could very sincerely fuck off, because he couldn't think straight and his hands shook and a thousand other miserable things that made him quite honestly hate the world. But he wasn't doing cocaine.

The only other upside was that Steve had been with him nearly every second of it. He had only left the apartment once so far, and that was to go check the mail. Even then, Peggy had been there to babysit Bucky, and Steve had returned within the hour.

"So, I was thinking…" Steve began, still looking at his book. "I was thinking…maybe you could go to some NA meetings?"

Bucky cracked open an eye and rolled his head about to look at Steve.

"Steve. You realize that on most days, I can barely get the energy up to go across the room to get a drink of water, and sometimes I can't even find the will to _move, _not with my _everything _hurting like a bitch. There's _no way_ I can go to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting."

"Not right now," Steve said quickly, closing the book again. He had that bright look that Bucky had come to _hate_, because he was fixing on something, and Bucky would inevitably have to do it, no matter how much it made him despise humanity, and living in general. "But I've read that cocaine withdrawal only lasts about a week. Once we're out of that, you won't feel so awful."

Apparently, Steve had been doing a little more with his time cooped up than Bucky had. Then again, he wasn't trying to kill himself by not using cocaine.

"And it would be good for you, Buck. I mean, these people _know_ what you're feeling, they're not just fumbling around in the dark like we're doing. And they're good, they're not using! You've gotta admit, anything can help at this point."

Bucky closed his eyes again, and returned to facing the ceiling.

"Yeah, sure, fine," he mumbled, if only to get Steve to stop talking about it.

* * *

Bucky went to some meetings. And it was alright, he guessed. The other people attending certainly knew more about what he was going through than Steve or Peggy, and there was some sort of comfort in seeing people with more than a few days of sobriety under their belt. But it wasn't really enough.

The first time Bucky tried to sneak out and buy cocaine, it was in the dead of night, he had been about two weeks sober, and he had absolutely _hated_ himself. Steve had caught him in the hallway, and promptly dragged him back indoors. When Bucky tried to force his way out, Steve had punched him and yelled a little bit. Bucky didn't really mind. If Steve was screaming about how _stupid_ Bucky was being, then he wasn't checking Bucky's hand to find the wad of bills stolen from Steve's wallet.

The second time he had gone out, he didn't give a damn about how long he'd been sober, his self-hatred had been dulled by the _need_ for cocaine, and Peggy had stopped him. She didn't scream, or hit Bucky, or even give him one of her brutal disappointed looks. She just asked him very quietly to stay in his apartment, and told him that she would be there in a moment. It had been a fluke, honestly, she just happened to ring the moment he was fumbling with his keys, and he guessed that the _coke coke coke_ tone in his voice had been a little louder than his words.

Once Peggy got there, she asked Bucky if he would go on a walk with her, and he grumbled some sort of affirmative, because he didn't know how to deal with _soft._ Nothing was soft in his life, anymore. Not the need for drugs, not the twisted up feelings in his stomach, not the way Steve handled him, not the burning in his nose that could only be fixed by the next high. But she just gave him an honest smile, took his hand, and walked him to a nearby park. Bucky couldn't sit still because _he could be getting high,_ but Peggy pointed out that there were birds, and a fountain, and some kids running around a few of the trees. Bucky wanted to point out that he was very, _very_ grateful she was there, but it never came up.

Bucky was doing good. He was doing good he was doing good he was doing cocaine.

He honestly had no idea how it had happened. It started out as a casual trip to the store to get some bread, the thirty day sobriety chip bouncing sweetly in his pocket, and the next thing he knew he was sitting on the sidewalk with no shoes on, waiting for Steve to come pick him up. He could still hear his own voice, jangling around in his head.

_Steve, Steve, oooooooh Steve, I fucked up, I fucked up so big oh my gosh you won't even **believe,** I am so high right now I'm sorry I am so sorry I didn't mean it I don't want to do this I didn't want to I didn't I swear, Steve, I don't where I am please help come get me please Steve._

Bucky hadn't noticed the tears on his own face until he started laughing, because then it had turned into gross sobbing. No one had noticed, not even the girl that had kissed his neck and taken the pipe out of his hand.

"I thought you were getting bread," Steve said after Bucky had gotten into the car. Even in his state, Bucky could feel the sharp _disappointment_ in his voice. He hated the disappointment, more than anything. More than the lies, more than the ache of withdrawal, more than the craving he had in the first place.

"I thought so, too," he mumbled, slumping into his seat.

"Well, you blew that one."

And then Bucky was laughing, he was laughing because he couldn't stand it and he wanted to get out of the car he wanted to get away from Steve when he was like this he was suddenly out of the car he was on his knees he was throwing up.

Steve's hands were on Bucky's shoulders in a second, solid despite everything he had done. Bucky reached up and grabbed on, even though his hand was wet from the rainwater on the street and potentially his own vomit, but he _needed_ Steve to know just how much he meant. He might have said so, the words coming out along with bile and whatever had managed to stay in his stomach, but he couldn't be sure. All he knew was that a little while later, Steve was herding him back into the car, voice low and soothing as he pulled out a bottle of water and handed it to Bucky.

* * *

The next time he used, the normal amount wasn't enough. Bucky wasn't even sure if there was such a thing as _the normal amount,_ unless it meant 'whatever is enough to make me feel something else'. It took a long while, that was for sure. A long while for Bucky to break, and a long while for him to feel _good._ But he didn't feel relief. He just felt…different, on edge, not quite connected to his body, drifting and trying to find land where it didn't exist.

Bucky honestly didn't remember leaving…wherever it was his dealer had been. He didn't remember walking down the street, half out of his head, though there were plenty of witnesses to attest to that. He also didn't remember running into that gang, but apparently it had happened and it had been bad. What he _did_ remember was lying on the ground, hurting to breathe, hurting to think, hurting to reach for his phone and call for Steve. His left arm felt fine, though, which was kind of weird, considering that his left shoulder felt like it had been set on fire.

Next thing he knew, there were people and they were touching him _grabbing_ him pushing him somewhere, even though he wasn't taking steps. He was floating, he was off his head, he was seeing lights go by, he was listening to words like _white male_, _possible intoxication,_ _gun wound,_ and _immediate family._

Steve.

"G-cul'ste."

_ light light light door woman's face light_

"Sir, sir, it's alright, you were attacked recently, but we are wheeling you into the emergency room right now. Can you take a few breaths for me, nice and slow?"

_light hurt light hand **hurt** light light_

"G—g—go cul st—"

"Sir, listen to me. You were attacked, and received a gunshot wound to the left shoulder. Sir, I need you to tell me if you took any sort of substances tonight—"

"N—go cul—"

"_Sir,_ did you take any sort of drug tonight?"

"Cocaine," he admitted, and the word seemed very, very small at that point. It was whisked away from him as he was carried on, the lights flicking by and people babbling all around him. There was no condemnation, no disgust, no disappointment. He didn't know how to feel.

"_Steve,_" he finally managed, body feeling like it was collapsing in on itself, trying to prevent the words from getting out. "Call—call Steve, he—I need him, call him, he's the one—"

"Sir, I understand, but I'm going to need you to stop moving around. Please stay calm, we're going to take you…"

* * *

"…we've had a clear look at the damage, and it's not good. Sir… by the looks of it, your friend may not be able to use his left arm again. As is, we could try to clean up the wound, make it as neat as possible for his body to stitch up by itself, but the bullet practically shattered the scapula, the shoulder blade. It's a miracle none of the bone fragments punctured his lung, not to mention hit his spinal cord, but there is some damage done to his upper ribs, mostly bruising. That's the good news, the chest side of the bone. The arm side…"

"What happened, doctor?"

"Well, the socket was pretty severely damaged. Tendons, ligaments, bone, cartilage…it was all torn apart. Like I said…he probably won't be able to use his arm anymore. Twitch a few fingers, maybe, if he's lucky, lift it maybe an inch in the arm, but other than that…I'm sorry."

"And there's…nothing?" Steve asked. Bucky hadn't quite figured out how to open his eyes yet, but he _knew_ that voice. It was the sharpest form of sorrow he knew, filled with absolute regret at having been unable to save someone from such pain. "_Nothing_ you can do, but…clean it up?"

"Nothing…orthodox. There is a new procedure, but it is…fairly untested. It'll certainly change your friend's life, anyway. But I mention it only as a last resort, and maybe not even that."

"What is it?" There was such hope in Steve's voice, it snapped Bucky into some sort of reality.

"Steve?" he groaned, and instantly he was there, hand on Bucky's arm.

"Bucky, oh, Bucky, I'm here, okay?"

"Wha's goin' on?" he slurred, trying to push himself up. Steve took a long breath, as if steeling himself, then set his hand on Bucky's side. Bucky closed his eyes, not wanting to have to look at such a painful mix of hope and sorrow.

"You're in the hospital, remember? We went through this. And—"

"Why can't I feel my arm?"

Steve stayed quiet.

Bucky opened his eyes (okay maybe just one eye, the other was swelled shut), then, and saw just how pale Steve had turned.

"Steve…why can't I move my arm?" There was panic now, because it wasn't just that he couldn't feel his arm, he couldn't move it, no matter how much he wanted to.

"Buck…there was an accident—you were attacked. It was a gang, and…"

"_Steve?_"

Bucky had hidden a cocaine addiction from his best friend in the world, had lived every second under the terror that _he might find out,_ but the fear he felt at that second was worse than any he had known.

"You were shot in the shoulder, and…it messed up your arm pretty good. They have you on pretty serious medication right now, so you can't feel the pain, but…you probably won't be able to move your arm again."

Bucky didn't say anything for a long time. The doctor joined in after a moment, explaining all of what he had just said again, but it wasn't making much more of an impression on Bucky the second time around.

He might not move his arm again.

Steve kept that awful, grim expression on his face, eyes moving from the blankets, to Bucky's hospital bracelet, to his face. Bucky couldn't look at him.

He might not move his _arm_, ever again.

"What else?" he asked, mumbled it, really. Both the doctor and Steve looked at him, faces turning a little sharp.

"Uhm, not much. Aside from your left arm, you also received some injury to your right side, right hand, and both thighs. Also some bruising on your face, but that will heal up on its own. Moving around will—"

"No, not that."

"Ex…cuse me?"

"You-you mentioned something else, just now. To Steve. What else...what else is there?"

"To do about your arm?" the doctor asked, sounding even more reluctant than he had before. "Like I said…I wouldn't normally suggest it, but considering your situation… It's a form of prosthesis, far more advanced than anything else out on the market. You have heard of the arm prosthesis that have functioning hands, yes?"

"Yeah," Steve said, nodding. "They have a small clamp for a hand, and it can close on command."

"Yes, using pressure pads placed in the shoe, a person can command their hand with their foot. This…takes that concept quite a bit farther. Rather than have a rudimentary arm and hand, one that looks like sticks and a couple joints…this would look remarkably like the real thing. The only big difference, really, is that…well, it would be made almost entirely out of metal."

"Is…that even possible? A metal arm?" Steve asked, sounding worried now. Bucky was barely even listening.

"Apparently, now it is. There has been a shocking amount of success with the models, but as it is a fairly new project, there haven't been very many people willing to…it's fairly untested. Since your frien—Mr. Barnes would technically be another tester, the surgery would come at a fairly low rate, subsidized by the company running the trials."

"And…how would that work? You said that it goes beyond the foot thing."

"Yes. The arm's wire nerves would connect with your tissue nerves," the doctor said, turning to speak to Bucky for the first time since he had pushed the subject, "and then…there we are, a properly functioning arm. But I need to warn you, it is a _very _invasive surgery, as the sheer weight of the arm would require some level of…bone replacement, or enhancement, even in the best circumstances. And, of course…amputation."

"Do it," Bucky said, staring out the window.

"Uh, sir, Mr. Barnes, I don't think you—"

"You cut off my arm, which I can't use, and you give a metal one. You also have to take out some bones, so the arm doesn't rip out of my body. I get an arm that works."

"Well, yes, but also _months_ of recovery. And not to mention the numerous risks that are associated with replacing the body structure unnecessarily. All sorts of problems could happen, your body rejecting the mass amounts of metals placed within it, least of all. I honestly think a more conventional method is the way to—"

"If it doesn't work, will it kill me?"

"What?"

"If this doesn't work, will I die?"

"Well, no."

"And if it doesn't work, I can still use a normal prosthetic? With the foot thing?"

"Yes."

"Then I want the arm."

"Mr. Rogers," the doctor said, dragging the word out as he clearly tried to keep his mild panic in check, "I would advise…well, you can't speak for Mr. Barnes here, not since he is clearly conscious and able to make clear thought, but…please, talk to him. Make sure he really understands what he's asking for."

* * *

Bucky understood what he was asking for. Sort of. He didn't count on the entire left half of his chest hurting for weeks on end, or the feeling of being slightly off balance, as the metal arm was a bit heavier than the flesh one. He didn't count on having to check his grip, as evident by the number of water bottles and cups crushed in his hand. He also didn't count on the metal bones and prosthetic port aching when the weather changed, but it did, and it would, until he died or the arm was taken off. But he had an arm.

Steve helped him as much as always, as he went through physical therapy, and tried to adjust to being a cyborg. Peggy showed up to the hospital room with encouragement, contraband candies, and eyes that lingered a little too long. Bucky just tried to get through it without bringing up the fact that he had lost his arm because he had gotten high.

He didn't really crave it any more. Of course Bucky still wanted cocaine, he wanted it like he wanted air while holding his breath underwater, but the ache was gone. His shame and a highly invasive miracle surgery had washed that right out of him, for now, at least.

* * *

"I think I should buy a new place."

It had been months, now, and Bucky had been discharged and made it through his physical therapy. He had also been unofficially living with Steve, only going back to his place for the odd items that he hadn't gotten around to moving. Neither one of them talked about it, but Bucky had been avoiding the place because the very floorboards stank of bad choices and cocaine. Steve probably just thought he needed some moral support after replacing his arm with a metal prosthetic.

Honestly, Bucky didn't mind the arm. It was strong and worked well and just required a different set of maintenance. Steve looked at it like it was a parasite.

"What?"

"I said…I think I should buy a new place. Too many…too many bad memories at my apartment right now. I think it'd be…it'd be good to get a fresh start, you know?"

"Y…eah," Steve said, frowning at him over a bowl of oatmeal.

"You don't like the idea?"

"No, it's a great idea, it's good, it's good, I just…do you..."

"I can live on my own, Steve."

"I know you can, but—"

"Steve. I can live on my own."

"Aren't you…a _little_ worried?"

"Well, since you are—"

"Don't do that, Bucky," Steve warned, shaking his head. "Don't start getting huffy because I disagree. I just don't think…I mean, that's some serious trauma."

"And I've been going to a shrink for it! I've been attending meetings, I've gone through physical therapy, hell, I've even been taking long, contemplative walks in the park to clear my head, where people stare at me like I'm some kind of _freak_ and can't be trusted to walk past their children!"

Bucky blinked. He hadn't meant to say that.

The look in Steve's eyes changed a little, but didn't soften.

"Buck, I know it's hard…"

"No, Steve, you don't. You've been sitting on the sidelines, the perfect prince while I have shot my life to shit and you add some sympathy, a few back pats, and say rub some dirt in it! You can't _make decisions _for me, you can't _choose _to keep me locked up in here!"

"I'm not keeping you locked up!" Steve snapped back, standing now. "Bucky, _you're_ the one that decided to stay here! I never asked you to—"

"Oh, so now I'm a squatter, a home invader that you've just been too nice to get rid of? Sorry, you_ never told me_."

"Because that's not what you are! You're my _best friend,_ I'm not _mad_ that you need a little help after _you got high and screwed yourself_."

Bucky didn't say anything to that. He just _looked_ at Steve, giving him the most filthy look he could manage.

"I'm going back to my place," he said, the words dropped like nickel from the counter. Cold, final, not worth very much as they left a ring in the air.

"Bucky, _no,_" Steve said, and then Bucky guessed that he grabbed his arm because it was being pulled back and he couldn't really move forward, but it was his metal arm and he still wasn't quite used to the sensors in it and—

Steve dropped his hand, quick like he didn't want to be seen touching it. Bucky stared at him, trying to find the words to say.

"I didn't mean to—"

"You're afraid to touch it," Bucky said, softer now, more shocked than anything.

"No, I just wasn't sure if…" Steve didn't pick his eyes up off the floor.

"I'm going, Steve."

* * *

_AN OKAY YOU GUYS JUST SIT WITH ME WE'LL MAKE IT THROUGH THIS I PROMISE._


	3. back in your own backyard

_AN OKAY, SO WE FINALLY GET TO THE POINT THAT ACTUALLY INVOLVES A COFFEE SHOP. Again, I urge eeeeeeeeeeeeverybody to go read _**and you can tell everyone this is your song, **_because it is a fabulous, sweet little fic, and also the story that this is based off of/ties into, so yes, go read it and love it and enjoy._

_This is also the last chapter of this little adventure I hope you all enjoyed it! This was awesome to write, kind of different from my normal thing (kiiiiiiind of), but also hopefully very honest in its depiction of people and relationships. _

_All of the chapter titles have been from early jazz songs that suit the different events/tones of the chapters. I strongly recommend these versions:_

_Look for the Silver Lining - Chet Baker (vocals)  
Weep Willow for Me - Etta James  
Back in Your Own Backyard - Billie Holiday_

* * *

Bucky saw Steve after that. And then he saw him after that. And then once more, a brief, casual drop by to grab his things. He mentioned that he had found a new apartment, and Steve nodded, and said he would like to see it some time, and then Bucky left.

That had been months ago.

Bucky hadn't meant to stop talking to Steve. It started as him being too pissed to talk to Steve, and then after he had cooled off, he was too ashamed to look his best friend in the eye. This was worse than hiding the drugs, or having Steve hold his shoulders as he vomited up all of his shame and terror on the sidewalk. This was a stark, clear eyed retrospection, where Bucky tallied up all the things he had done, and the things Steve had done, and weighed them out, and decided that Steve didn't deserve him. He didn't deserve the constant worry, the disappointment, the anger and the mood swings and the constant cravings for powdered death. He deserved someone who could help him as well, not someone who took and took and _took._

Bucky kept in contact with Peggy, though. It wasn't much, just a call here, a lunch there, but he liked it. She knew what he had gone through, and she wasn't hellbent on trying to _fix_ him, like Steve was. The farthest she went was to flick his hair and say that it _very much_ needed a haircut, her smile dark red and teasing. Even that had been undercut by her putting a hand on his shoulder as she moved to leave, and a proud whisper that he looked good. That comment had stayed in his chest for days, because it was nice, having someone notice just how _hard _he was working.

More than just her friendship, though, Bucky valued the fact that Peggy allowed him to keep track of Steve. Things were going well. His free lancing business had picked up, but he still hadn't resumed training to join the military. Sam had also become a more prevalent feature in his life, which Peggy off-handedly said was a good thing for Steve. Bucky tried very hard not to feel replaced.

For his part, Bucky also found things to keep himself occupied. He continued to attend meetings, and collected his chips with a thrill of both shock and pride. He read more, he started cooking, he began a vintage record collection. Basically, Bucky started taking Steve's advice about getting a life outside of cocaine, albeit far too late.

The biggest change had to be the dancing. Just as Steve had predicted, Bucky loved taking dancing lessons of all sort. He had been nervous at first, not sure how to act when he had a giant hunk of metal where flesh and blood should be, but his partner ended up being a slip of a thing that been very polite about it all, waiting for him to slowly bring the topic up himself. Everyone was nice, everyone laughed good naturedly and offered help at other people's mistakes, and nothing had to do with drugs. The dance instructor had been impressed enough with Bucky's progress that he even offered him a job as an assistant for the younger level classes. It wasn't drugs and it involved swing dancing, so Bucky said yes.

Things worked out for a few months, then there were complaints. No one said it, but Bucky knew it about his arm. He left before the fact that he had been a cocaine addict leaked out. Rude, narrow minded people he could handle, but it made sense, not wanting a former addict personally instructing a bunch of seven year olds. Bucky had just been stupid for imagining that things could work out there.

Another change was that Bucky started going to coffee shops. Before, he had just stopped by to grab something to keep him on his feet, because he had not slept in days and he aggressively didn't want Steve asking about it, but now, Bucky went to enjoy the atmosphere. They were quiet, they were nice, they were places where he wasn't likely to find someone to sell him a bag of blow. Plus they had all sorts of coffee.

He hopped from place to place to place before he realized that, one day, there was a coffee shop across the street from Steve's apartment, and he missed Steve, and he desperately wanted to make up. But there was also the fact that he was _terrified,_ so he settled on the next best thing, which was casually haunting the coffee shop until he worked up the gall to go knock on Steve's door.

* * *

When he first walked in, it was like he had been punched in the face with the 80s. There were older posters of 80s icons, rock bands and prima donnas, even a few from popular TV shows. Rock music played over the speakers, not too loud, but not soft enough to be ignored. It was hard to say it even looked like a coffee shop, except the counter only stocked pastries and a variety of coffee paraphernalia.

"Can I help you?" the barista asked him, practically smirking at him. Bucky blinked, then realized that he was full on grimacing at the décor. He may have been born in the 80s, but Bucky's soul was firmly planted in the first half of the century.

"It's like the 80s threw up in here," he said, figuring that if she was already grinning at him, he could risk taking a dig at her place of work. "How do you stand it?"

"I kinda like it," she said, casting a glance around and shrugging. She had blue eyes that were almost green, and something about the look in her eye told him that she liked the place for its familiarity, and not because she adored shoulder pads and KISS. She tucked a strand of almost-too-red-to-be-true hair behind her ear, and looked back at him. Bucky gave a gentle scoff, then remembered why he was there, to try to work up the pluck to go across the street to see Steve, and not to banter with the barista. He shook his head, and ordered his coffee.

When the barista told him the price, he reached into his wallet and pulled out a bill. She reached to take it, then jumped when she brushed against his metal fingertips. His stomach froze as she turned from the cash register to his hand. It was gone in a second, and to her credit, she continued about her business, but Bucky saw the flat shock on her face.

"Long story," he said, like it was a great big joke he didn't mind telling, not part of the reason why he wasn't speaking to his best friend. He put his hand in his pocket, hoping that she wouldn't notice the way he was hiding it. "Don't ask."

He looked down at his coffee, just so he wouldn't have to meet her almost green eyes. He could still tell that her dazzling smile was a little less sincere than before, but he could also tell that she meant it when she told him to have a nice day.

"Yeah, sure," he said, turning around and walking right back out the door.

* * *

For some reason he couldn't really explain (that reason being _friendship_, even though he wasn't really sure if he deserved it), Bucky went back to the coffee shop the next day. He held his breath when he saw that the same girl was working the counter, and nearly considered continuing on to find another coffee shop, but he opened the door and walked in. _Maybe_ she might not recognize him, if he kept his hand in his pocket and tried not to attract attention.

"Hello again," she said, shooting all his hopes to shit. She was smirking like she had just won a bet, leaning against the counter and watching him walk up.

"The, uh…you guys make really good coffee. And this damn music won't get out of my head," he explained hurriedly, gesturing up at the speakers. A vaguely familiar song was playing, something that reminded him of sitting in Steve's only armchair and flipping through a color theory book. It had been on the radio when he had been in withdrawal, he realized, the song playing once and then getting stuck in Steve's head, causing him to hum it for hours afterward while he worked on a commission and Bucky tried not to vomit from sheer misery. Bucky swallowed and focused on the barista.

"They're catchy like that. And you're not the only person to tell me that the coffee is good."

"You don't drink it?" he asked, surprised by her response.

"I'm more a tea person, myself," she said, giving a one shouldered shrug.

"Tea is good, too," he said, then placed an order.

The barista didn't pay his arm any attention, but then again, his left hand had been in his pocket the entire time, and he kept the sleeve tugged down below his wrist. She gave him another sincere _have a nice day,_ and he stepped away from the counter. For half a second, Bucky considered staying and examining the décor more fully, but then a song with an obnoxiously heavy drum section came on. Bucky gave the barista, her name tag said _Natasha_, a quick smile, then headed out the door. The coffee shop would still be there, and so would Steve's apartment.

Bucky returned home, and played his collection of records from the 40s and 50s all evening. When he went to sleep, the song from the coffee shop chased itself around his head.

* * *

"Are you humming _Born to Be My Baby_?"

"Hm?" Bucky asked, looking down at his swing partner. She was staring at him, a disbelieving smile on her lips. "What am I humming?"

"_Born to Be My Baby._ You know, Bon Jovi?"

"Uhm…maybe."

"_James_," she sighed, giving a smirk as she rolled her eyes. "You barely know _modern_ songs, how do you have the tune of the entire chorus down from a song that came out when you were, like, not even born yet? And not counting jazz, because that stuff is probably carved into your soul."

"Luck," he said, shrugging and trying not to let a smirk of his own cross his lips. He had been to the coffee shop earlier in the day, and the apparent Bon Jovi song had been playing when he sat down in a booth. Natasha had looked just as smug as she had the second time he walked in, and had even engaged him in some basic small talk about the weather. It had been raining, which she said she had disliked. Bucky had liked it, because it made his left shoulder ache, and each twinge was his own little chorus of _do not get high._

"Okay, changing the subject," his partner said, adjusting her skirt. "So, you know Andy and Marique?"

"Dana, _everyone_ knows Andy and Marique. They're _always_ here," Bucky said, waving his hand around the dance hall. He and Dana may have been faithful patrons to swing night, but Andy and Marique attended _religiously._

"Okay, yeah, well, I was thinking…"

"Yeah?"

"You should totally dress up like they do," she said, bouncing in her seat and grabbing his hand.

"Like, one half of me is in a zoot suit, the other have in a poodle skirt?"

"Shut up, _no, _that's not what I meant. Though I would pay good money to see that. You should totally dress up vintage-like, with the suit and the hat and the _shoes—_"

"Is there something wrong with the way I look now?" he asked, giving her a _don't you dare criticize how I look_ sort of expression.

"No, except you kinda look like a greaser, with the jeans and the white t-shirt. _Which is fine,_ rockabilly works here, too. I'm just saying…you'd look sharp, y'know? Get a good suit, get rid of the scruff, cut your hair…not that I'm saying I totally don't dig the scruffy, artistic thing you've got, it's nice in a rugged, bad boy way, especially with the little man ponytail thing you've got there, but you could Fred Astaire this place like nobody's business, if you wanted to. I just think, I dunno, if you _looked_ like Fred Astaire, it could help psych you out for Fred Astaire level dancing. Or something."

"Meaning, you just want to do the fancy lifts you saw that one guy do a couple weeks ago with his partner, right? And get some of those amazing photos of us in action, of course."

"I wouldn't be _opposed_ to it, no, but that is totally not my agenda."

"_Right,_" Bucky scoffed, pulling her up from her seat as a song by Big Bad Voodoo Daddy started up.

"I mean, your body is a freakin' _temple._ And, besides, with the _arm,_ it could be sick. You could totally lift me. Just something you should think about, food for thought and all that."

Bucky rolled his eyes again, but the thought made his stomach do a weird sort of wriggle back flip thing. He had made himself show his left arm in the dance hall, and after a little bit of attention, people had just accepted it. Praised it, even, because he hadn't let some mysterious, debilitating injury stop him from doing the thing he loved. But hearing Dana talk about it so casually, just toss it around like it was just a fact that he could tweak to his advantage…it was weird. First, it made him think of how he compulsively hid it every time he walked into Natasha's coffee shop, and then it made him think of Steve. More specifically, the look in his eyes when he grabbed Bucky's wrist, and then recoiled when he realized he hadn't been touching a living thing, just a cold reminder.

Even though his skin started to crawl around eight, Bucky made himself stay until closing. He knew that itch, and if he went home, it would only end in cocaine and a lot of wasted time.

* * *

It had been six months since he had last spoken to Steve. Bucky hadn't realized it until sometime after lunch, and all of his feelings about the subject had mixed up and made him feel sick and want a fix so bad he could barely think. But he did not go buy cocaine. He practically ran to the subway station to get out of his apartment and away from the temptation, but he did not go buy cocaine. He went to the coffee shop, where he was just a guy that ordered coffee and kept to himself and stared out the window. No one knew that he lost his arm and his best friend to of cocaine, no one knew that the reason he sat in the same booth every visit was because it had the best view of the entrance to the apartment buildings, no one knew he was looking for Steve. He was just a guy.

"…You're paying with a credit card?" Natasha asked.

Bucky blinked and looked down at the card in his hand, then realized his coffee was all of three dollars. He felt a flush rising up his neck, scrambling to find an explanation.

He didn't carry cash on him when he got a craving. It was just something he had learned to do, after he had once gone on a walk to shake the jitters out, and then ending up with blow in his pocket (it had been dumped in a trash can immediately afterwards. He had then wanted to go back and snort every little bit out of it from off the bottom of the dumpster, and he had kind of hated himself, but it was the kind of hate that a quick touch to his sobriety chip helped soothe). He had been so wrapped up in the shit that was resurfacing from his life that he hadn't even considered how it might appear to an outsider.

"I—uh—I don't have any cash," he admitted, hoping that Natasha would take his rushed words as embarrassment, rather than shame.

She still had an eyebrow raised, but she shrugged and said, _"Alright…_James, is it?"

Bucky blinked again, then nodded and flashed a quick smile. Then tried not to bolt for his booth because, for some reason, he didn't want Natasha to know that he was an addict and he couldn't control himself and even just thinking about doing cocaine was making his mouth go dry and his hands shake and his bones _need_ the drug.

Bucky found himself watching Natasha as she worked with some other customers. He appreciated the fact that she hadn't mentioned his strange behavior, despite the many conversations they had had together. And that lack of pushiness made him want to tell her, just a little bit. Nothing much, just…one fact, one personal, important fact about him that didn't hurt like a bitch. In that way, she reminded him of Peggy, who tucked away her personal feelings on the matter and got to the business of helping him through it all.

The thought made him homesick for the life he'd had across the road, no matter how heinous it had been. Bucky looked away from Natasha and back out the window, wondering why loneliness had almost as much of a physical pain as addiction.

* * *

By now, he and Natasha were on good enough terms that she felt confident messing with his order.

(He supposed this may or may not have been helped along by a well-placed comment about her smile. Not that he was in the market or anything, he had just noticed it and felt that she could stand to hear about it. The more than typical smiles he had given her in return were just him silently appreciating her excellent people skills.)

At first, she had just put whipped cream on his coffee, giving him her cheeky smile as she did so. He had played her game and winked in response, but it took all of one false mouthful to realize it was basically sugar and sorrow in canned form, so he had had to return it to her to show her just what she had done. This time, she had put a stick of cinnamon in his cup.

At first, Bucky hadn't noticed because the lid was on, but when he took a sip and was punched in the mouth with that familiar, warm taste. He looked at her in surprise, and saw that she was waiting, nervous, hoping that he would like it. Bucky had grinned at her in way of thank you, and moved to his booth.

He had only been sitting there for a few minutes when he saw the door open across the street, and then Steve walked out. His heart screamed into his chest, because he suddenly _ached_ to go talk to him, but his _mind_ was screaming that he was absolutely not ready, he was not ready _he was not ready._ So Bucky watched Steve walk down the street, away from him, away from an opportunity he didn't even know he had, and on into some other facet of his life.

Bucky finished his coffee, but some integral part deep inside him stayed empty. He continued watching out the window, even though he knew that Steve probably wouldn't be back before he left. He wasn't sure if he wanted to see him again, not when it had hurt so much.

A little later, Bucky found himself getting up from his table and throwing his cup in the trash. As he glanced around, he caught Natasha's eye, and on pure impulse, gave her an unprompted smile and a wave. It was her turn to blink in surprise, now, but then she was grinning back, and giving him a nod as she turned to the espresso machine.

* * *

The next day, Natasha was again working the counter. She gave Bucky the customary smile and small talk as she got him his order, then he left to go sit at the booth. Some stupid, hopeful part of him was _wishing_ Steve would make an appearance again, but that was the first time Bucky had seen him since beginning to visit the shop, so the rest of Bucky was just telling himself to shut up and drink his coffee.

Then he noticed that Natasha was mopping the floor, and watched as she systematically worked one half of the floor, then the other. He had returned to watching the street by the time she came near his section, but it took a little bit for him to realize that she had stopped, and was virtually hovering a few feet away.

"Do you need something?" he asked, turning to face her over his shoulder at her. He wanted to drape his arm over the back of the booth to face her properly, but he had _just_ worked himself out of keeping his hand shoved in his pocket, and he didn't really want to flash off his mistakes to the whole world.

Natasha looked like she was considering things, then took a breath and sat across from him in the booth. Bucky watched her in surprise, not quite sure what to do now that they didn't have the customary exchange of him buying coffee to deal with.

"What are you looking for?" she asked, tilting her head to the window. "You've been coming here at the same time for almost three weeks, just to sit here for a couple hours and watch that building."

Bucky felt his stomach jump, because, okay, he hadn't exactly been trying to _hide_ what he'd been doing, but he hadn't expected to be asked about it, either. Natasha smiled at him, though he wasn't sure if she had noticed the quality of his surprise.

"You a crazy stalker or something?"

He gave a vague laugh and turned his eyes down to his coffee cup.

"Not exactly."

They were silent for a couple seconds, then Bucky looked at Natasha. She shifted under his gaze, suddenly aware of the fact that she was sitting across the table from one of her new found loyal patrons. Her hair was in a pony tail that was barely longer than his, but it also made cute little curls against her neck. Her lipstick was bright red, the way Peggy's was, and he was reminded yet again of his casual desire to _talk_ to her, to tell her about his life the way he did with Peggy, but without the taint of addiction coating everything.

Natasha looked like she was about to get up, so he took a risk and opened his mouth.

"It's my friend," he began, chest tightening against the words. He hadn't talked about Steve, or at least the bad parts with him, in a long time. Bucky stared at his hand as he spoke, because he wasn't sure how he was supposed to meet Natasha's eye when peeling up a bit of his life story.

"A while back, I…lost myself. And I hurt him."

He looked at the window, almost wishing he could see him again. But at that moment, Bucky wasn't there for Steve, he was there for Natasha.

"I know he'll forgive me for it because I wasn't myself, but I can't ask him to. Not after… I just can't."

The words sounded sad in his mouth, a little pathetic, and very lost. It was such a gross over simplification of what had happened, the weeks Steve had spent supporting Bucky into recovery, the hours spent when he relapsed, the laughter and tears that had been spilled along the way. Bucky looked up at Natasha then, desperate to explain it all, to tell her just what had happened, but in a way that cast no undue blame. He just wanted the facts that said that he, James Buchanan Barnes, was an utter and complete fuck up, and that he didn't really know how to fix any of it. But then remembered he was sitting in a coffee shop, and that Natasha was just a friendly barista that he had barely begun having a real conversation with. And he didn't know if he would be able to survive telling someone outside of the fact that he was a cocaine addict.

"He live in that building?" Natasha asked quietly, the joking edge gone. Bucky nodded, keeping his eyes on her. She licked her lips, then asked, "…Why're you telling me this?"

"Because you asked."

Bucky sat back, the moment gone, and not sure if the feeling in his stomach was because of it. He took a sip of his drink to try and cover it.

"Because you're a stranger. Because…who else am I going to tell?"

_Because I want you to know._

Natasha was quiet for a long moment, watching him, then turning to look out the window herself.

"I had better…" she mumbled, and stood up from the booth. Bucky watched the spot she had been in, wishing she stayed there a little longer.

A while later, he got up to leave. He glanced at Natasha behind the counter, and walked to the door.

"James!"

He turned, a little surprised to hear Natasha's voice calling for him.

"Maybe you could…maybe if you just invited your friend out for coffee?" she began, her blush starting up again. "Then you don't have to get into the heavy stuff. And it's a start."

He watched her for a moment. The ideal appealed to him immensely, because every fiber of his being _wanted to see Steve_, but at the same time, he was still just as scared as before. Though, at least if they were in public together, there would be less chance of a screaming match.

Bucky nodded at her, and then said, "Maybe. Thanks, Natasha."

She gave an uncertain smile back, but then nodded, as if reassuring herself.

* * *

It took Bucky four days before he called Steve. He had tried countless times before them, absolutely, he had stared at the number and tried to will himself into action, but it did not work. Then finally, one day, he just did it.

Bucky nearly threw the phone out the window when he heard the phone start ringing.

By the time Steve answered, Bucky had his knees drawn up to his chest, his metal hand clenched tight into a fist against his heart (he hadn't been certain if he would crush the phone from stress, had he held it in his left hand).

"…Hello?" Steve said, voice guarded and hopeful and worried and _Steve Steve Steve._

"U-uhm, hey," Bucky managed, figuring that if he was going to pass out in a couple seconds, he might as well say hello to keep from being rude.

"Bucky?" he asked, voice barely a sigh. Bucky wasn't sure if it was from relief or dread.

"Yeah, uh, hi," he said, now kneading his forehead with a knuckle, because he sounded like an idiot Steve was probably going to hang up on him he could barely breathe holy shit maybe he really would pass out he had to get through this conversation he had to get through this conversation he had to make Steve _understand._

"How're—how're you?" Bucky asked, knowing that he sounded like he was being throttled, but the words were out and then it was Steve's turn to respond.

"I'm alright," he said, voice mild. "Peggy's good, too. Got back into running, weird enough, business is doing good…"

Bucky licked his lips, curling in on himself even more, forehead pressed against his knees.

"Yeah? That's…that's really good, I'm glad to hear it. You…you really deserve it."

"Yeah…so, uhm, how are you…?" Steve asked, and the question in his voice was one that made Bucky hurt, but one that he also deserved.

"I'm good, I'm good. I, uh, I've really gotten into dancing, swing, you know. I actually have a consistent partner, which is—which is cool."

_I've been stone sober and I've gone to all of my meetings and I've started going to the coffee shop across from your place because I miss you and the barista there said we should talk so here I am._

Bucky chewed back the words, because he didn't want to bring up the cocaine, he didn't want to worry Steve, he didn't want to talk about how _hard _it was straightening out his very, _very_ screwed up life, made even harder because he didn't have Steve.

"How are you doing?" Steve asked softly, and Bucky knew that he wasn't talking about what went on in his life, he was talking about the cocaine and more specifically Bucky's habits involving it.

"I'm good, well, I'm better. I'm getting there," Bucky said, because there was no way he was _better_, because he still sometimes needed it like burning, and he definitely wasn't _good, _not when he had so _stupidly_ introduced the thing into his body in the first place. But he _was_ getting better, working to make himself stay in control. He was learning how to deal, but he just didn't want to do it on his own anymore.

"It's been hard," Bucky admitted, closing his eyes. "Every day, I…it's a fight. And sometimes I am so scared I'm going to break that I'm also sick, but then I get through it. Each day, it's so, _so_ hard to get up, because…I'm never sure, I don't know. And there isn't really anyone to hold me accountable because—" Bucky cut himself off, too embarrassed of confessing that he had told no one of his problem to continue.

"I get it," Steve said, voice almost too gentle to be true. Bucky closed his eyes tight, because he didn't _deserve_ this.

"Anyway," he continued, making his voice louder to hide just how damn close he was to crying, "I wanted—I just wanted to give you a call and see if—you wanna go grab a coffee or something? Then we could, I dunno, we could-we could talk?"

Steve was quiet for a long time, but Bucky didn't dare break the air between them, this was a decision for Steve and Steve alone. This was it, this was when Buck either managed to fall back into his good graces, or he was quietly locked out for forever.

"That sounds great," Steve said, the smile so, _so_ obvious in his voice. Bucky pressed his hand into his heart, certain he _was_ going to cry now. "So, uh, when to you want to do this? I'm pretty much free every day but Sunday, so…?"

"How about, how about tomorrow?" he asked, trying not to clear his throat into the phone.

"Yeah, sure, Buck. That sounds great."

* * *

It took him a few days to get back into the coffee shop, but when he did, Natasha practically beamed at him. Bucky couldn't stop the grin that spread across his own face as she finished up with a customer, and then walked around to meet him.

"How'd it go with your friend?" she asked, almost anxious in her desire for things to have gone well.

"I took your advice," he told her, thinking about the couple of hours he had spent with Steve across town, just talking and soaking each other in. That had been almost too surreal to survive, because Bucky had been _so sure _Steve hated him, but it had turned out that he was wrong. "He was glad to see me."

"That's good!" she said, seeming relieved that her advice had led him down the right path.

"Thank you, Natasha," he said, looking her in the face to make sure that she didn't think it was some off hand remark, but that it was honest and sincere and enough to make his bones ache. On impulse, he reached out and took her hand, squeezing it slightly. It was only when she looked down that he realized he had used his left hand, the metal one he had so desperately tried to pretend did not exist.

"How?" she asked, voice almost too low to exist. A thrill of worry went through his stomach, because he wasn't sure if he was ready for divulging the whole ugly truth yet, but he bit his cheek and told himself to get over it as she cleared her throat and tried again. "How? How did it happen?"

He smiled at her, feeling some weird, giddy sensation in his stomach that had nothing to do with his renewed friendship with Steve, or cocaine, or dancing, and shrugged.

"Tell you what: come to dinner with me, and I just might tell you."

Natasha let his hand go, and he felt a moment of panic _had he gone too far shit he never knew when to draw the line he had just screwed everything up **just** when he was feeling happy_, but then Natasha folded her arms, and gave one of her you-know-that-I-know-where-this-is-going-but-I-will-beat-around-the-bush-because-life's-more-fun-that-way looks.

"I don't know. You said it was a long story. Are you sure it'll only take on dinner to tell it?"

Bucky broke into a full on idiot-in-love grin, then pulled himself back. He frowned and chewed on his cheek a little.

"No, actually, now that you mention it, I think it'll probably take _at least_ three. Maybe five."

"Ten?" she asked, smirk big and probably delicious and everything he wanted to try. He broke into a laugh, and shrugged.

"On one condition. My next coffee is free."

Natasha laughed and took a step back toward the counter, smile as pleased as anyone could possibly be. And also absolutely and devilishly mischievous.

"And absolutely no whip cream!" he added, but he couldn't shake the laugh out of his voice.

* * *

_AN I had a ton of fun, delving into all of this gnarly pain, but then soothing it aaaaaall back out and making it sweet and lovely, and just asdfjkl; happy endings are the best and I will always come back to them no matter what :)_


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